


Life's A Play; We're Unrehearsed

by daymarket



Category: Sherlock (TV), White Collar
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Gift Fic, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daymarket/pseuds/daymarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, it takes being kidnapped to find a new ally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life's A Play; We're Unrehearsed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariadnes_string](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/gifts).



> Spoilers: Sherlock: Post 2x03. White Collar: Post 3x02.  
> Warnings: Vague mention of mob bosses and death of an OC, but nothing major.  
> A/N: Beta’d by Laura, thanks very much! This fic went through about sixty zillionty different mutations before finally settling on this one. Title taken from the latter half of a Mel Brooks quote. Hope you enjoy!

  
“You’ve gotten yourself into a proper fix this time, haven’t you.” Mycroft’s voice is crackly and distorted through the payphone, but Sherlock can still hear the insufferable disapproval in it. “Did you clean up the bodies, at least?”

Sherlock clenches his fingers tighter around the phone. “Most of them got away,” he says tersely.

“And Wiggins?”

“Dead,” Sherlock says.

“Hmm. Pity,” Mycroft says. He might as well be discussing afternoon tea from the sound of his voice. “He was a good contact, if somewhat unreliable.”

“He was clearly riding high on all the latest drugs, and his entire flat smelled of piss,” Sherlock snaps. When silence greets this statement, he forces himself to take a deep breath and calm down. He can’t afford to be cross with Mycroft, not now when he is doing everything but getting onto his knees and begging his brother for help. Moran has a long reach, and America, it seems, is well under his control. “I need someplace to stay. Someplace where I can hide long enough to recover my strength,” he says after a moment. Grudgingly: “Please.”

To his credit, Mycroft doesn’t comment on the “please”. There’s a slight rustle on the other end; might be static, might be the whisper of Mycroft’s impeccably tailored suit; might be papers flipping. “All right,” Mycroft says finally. “I might have someplace for you. The owner of this…ah…establishment…might be a bit peculiar, but I’m sure you’ll get along just fine.” Another rustle. “And you will need money and help.” It’s not a question.

Sherlock doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief, because he knows— _knows_ —that whatever their differences are, Mycroft would never abandon him now. The loyalty is probably not out of brotherly love as it is out of the need to unite against a common enemy, but when desperate and penniless on the unsavory streets of New York City, one cannot afford to be scrupulous. “Yes,” he says in response.

“Hmm,” Mycroft says. “All right, I’ll make the arrangements. Do try not to annoy your next host, Sherlock.”

“I’ll try not to,” Sherlock says, his voice flat. Like it was his fault Wiggins died ( _it was, but only technically, and grief’s not something he can afford right now_ ). “Who am I to be staying with?”

“Have you brushed up on Yeats?” Mycroft asks him suddenly, and the non sequitur is enough to throw Sherlock for a loop. “Never mind, I suspect you haven’t the time, and even if you did, the least inclination. Hmm, let’s see. ‘Pale brows, still hands and dim hair…I had a beautiful friend, and dreamed that the old despair would end in love in the end.’”

The words strike deeper than they should, and Sherlock grits his teeth, knowing that this is Mycroft’s rebuke. “What does this have to do with John?” he demands sharply. “He thinks I’m dead, and that’s the end of it, Mycroft.”

“Of course,” Mycroft says, and he actually has the audacity to sound  _affronted_ , damn him. “I was simply quoting Yeats. A fine poet, Irish, though hopefully not as, shall we say, despicable as our current nemesis. Your contact likes poetry. You may find the quote useful.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, forcing his mental hackles to settle. “In what way?”

“Keep your head down,” Mycroft says, “and don’t get in too much trouble. You’ll be contacted shortly by your host. He’s a short man, balding on top, who may or may not be wearing a pair of glasses. You might not see him right away, but just remember Yeats and you’ll be fine.”

“Do I get a name?” Sherlock asks archly.

“He calls himself the ‘Dentist,’” Mycroft replies. “And here, dear brother, is where I must you bid you farewell. By my count, we’ve about one more minute before Moran finishes tracing this call.”

Sherlock hunches deeper into his coat. Don’t look around, he reminds himself, don’t make yourself too obvious. “Are we being recorded?” he asks tersely.

“Not yet,” Mycroft says, and Sherlock trusts him—has no  _choice_  but to trust him. “But we might be soon. I’ll contact you later.” And then there’s the click and the dial tone. Sherlock places the phone slowly back into its cradle, and he’s filled with more than just the cold of New York City in the winter.

A casual glance around the street reveals nothing, but equally, that means nothing. How this “Dentist” is going to contact him, he doesn’t know, but he’s learned not to question Mycroft’s methods. After the disaster with Wiggins, keeping his head down for a while might be advisable.

He takes a deep breath. He picks a direction and starts walking, acutely aware of the sounds around him. New York City is purportedly the city that never sleeps, but there are some streets in New York that can be, unsurprisingly enough, deserted in the dark of night. The quiet is unsettling, and Sherlock moves in the direction of the busy streets, where at the very least he can lose himself in the crowd.

It happens about fifteen minutes later, when he’s walking past a panhandler sitting on a stoop. “Spare some change?” the panhandler asks him, pointedly shaking his plastic cup. Sherlock scans him up and down—it’s a good disguise, but even in the dim light that he’s definitely not a panhandler. “I had a beautiful friend once, mister.”

Sherlock reaches into his pocket, fumbling for the last dregs of change in his pocket. “Did you now,” he says, dropping a quarter into the cup. What had Mycroft said—ah. “Did he have pale brows, still hands, dim hair? Did you dream of old despair?”

The panhandler squints up at him. “I don’t know how you have such a sophisticated accent and still manage to mangle Yeats that badly,” he says at last. “Tell me, mister. Does a speckled cat eat with the tamed hare?”

Sherlock frowns. Yes? No? “Only if it’s got no teeth left,” he settles for finally. “It might need to go see a dentist in that case.”

“Not so loud!” the man hisses. He stands up, and Sherlock looks up him and down. “You like umbrellas?”

Oh, Mycroft. Sherlock smiles grimly. “I adore umbrellas,” he says, enunciating each word clearly. “Love them to pieces. Can’t get enough of them. Endlessly fascinated by—”

“Okay, stop it before I need to clean out my brain,” the man interrupts. “I get it, I believe you. Come on, it’s freezing out here. Let’s get your sorry ass to Sunday.”

“Sunday?” Sherlock asks. “A safehouse, I presume?”

“It won’t be safe for very long if you keep shouting it out like that,” the Dentist grumbles.

“I assume you’ve been informed of my situation,” Sherlock says cautiously, testing the waters.

The Dentist hikes up his collar. It’s clearly secondhand, Sherlock notes absently, with smudges on the cuffs that look like paint or dye. “So I’ve been commissioned,” the Dentist says as they make their way through a convoluted maze of streets. “Or to be accurate, my stuff has been commissioned.” He gives Sherlock a glare. “That’s it. Don’t get any ideas, fancy British man. I’m retired. Well, sort of, but close enough when it comes to…whatever you’re into. I don’t want to know.”

Disappointing, but not unexpected. Evidently Mycroft must be sending the promised money and help through another avenue. “All right,” Sherlock says.

“Don’t think you can get umbrella man to convince me otherwise,” the Dentist adds. “I’ll have you know that I have many secret methods of revenge. For instance, I can kill you with a deck of playing cards. I’ve been practicing. I sliced a tomato in half with one once. I bet it would go right through your skull. Like butter. A hot knife through butter. Or at least it would cut you, anyway.”

Well. All right then.

“I’m just looking for a place to recoup,” Sherlock says.

The Dentist glares at him again. “Right,” he mutters. “I’m going to have to burn Sunday, you know that? One of my favorite safehouses and poof, never to come back. Umbrella man owes me big time for this.”

“I’m sure you’ll be paid in full,” Sherlock says sharply. He looks around, trying to shake off the feeling that they’re being watched. “You’re attracting attention,” he hisses.

The Dentist mutters under his breath. “Tell  _me_  how to sneak around New York,” he says. “Like I don’t know how.”

_Do try not to annoy your next host_ , Mycroft’s smarmy voice says in Sherlock’s mind. It hardly counts if the host is annoying him equally in return, Sherlock thinks rebelliously before forcing it out of his mind. He’s at the man’s mercy here, and he’s done more with far less dignity. And he has no desire to witness another death like Wiggins’, unpleasant as the Dentist may be. “I…apologize,” he says at last, quiet and formal.

The Dentist snorts, but he sounds more mollified when he next speaks. “Umbrella man’s going to be giving me some cash,” he says as he pulls open a grate. “Duck through,” he adds, holding it open for Sherlock. “So I’m supposed to give you cash. Five thousand bucks, free for you to do…whatever you want to do.” He holds up a warning finger. “Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”  _Slam_  goes the grate.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. “I appreciate your efforts.”

“Yeah, there’s so much enthusiasm there, huh,” the Dentist says, but Sherlock doesn’t sense any real rancor to it. They make their way down a set of steps, through another maze, up a creaking elevator. They stop before a barred metal door, and the Dentist inserts a heavy iron key into the lock and twists it open. Pushing the door open, the Dentist announces, “Voila! Welcome to Sunday, my eccedentesiastic friend!”

Sherlock surveys the room. He expects…well, his previous lodgings smelled of cat piss and he shared the place with a multitude of insects, but surprisingly enough, it opens to a clean, furnished basement room with a kitchenette and attached bathroom. There’s even a small window near the top with a flowery curtain drawn over it. It looks a great deal more comfortable than the majority of places he’s been in for the past year, and it reminds him, achingly enough, of a little flat back in London. “You’ve got water, electricity,” the Dentist says, flicking the lights on and off. “I’ll even throw in a portable heater.” He pushes the curtains back from the window. “Gives you a little bit of natural sunlight to ward off that impending vampirism you’ve got going on. For a fast escape route, though, you’re going to want the grate in the bathroom. Just jimmy off the cover and crawl through. You’ll drop into a sewer sooner or later.”

Sewer-crawling. Just one of the many things he’d never thought that he’d do, but the past year has taught him otherwise. “Thank you,” he says stiffly.

“Don’t strain yourself,” the Dentist calls from inside the bathroom. “Anyway,” he adds, poking his head out the bathroom door, “You’ve got this place for a week, and then I come and clean this place out with industrial strength bleach. And other things. I do mean  _industrial strength_ , so you should definitely clear out before that happens.”

Sherlock nods. He moves over to the small bed and sits down slowly. The clean, soft cover under his fingers feels almost foreign after so long on Wiggins’ piss-stained boxspring mattress and the less-than-hospitable streets of New York City. It’s as if all the strength drains out of his bones in a flash, and it’s all he can do to hold himself upright. He’s so tired. He wants to lie down and just sleep forever in this cozy little room. He wants to go home. He wants…

“Hey.”

The Dentist’s voice snaps him out of his reverie. Sherlock shakes his head briskly, grasping at the last shreds of strength left in his reserve. “What?”

“You look…” The Dentist’s standing in front of him, looking at him with a vaguely constipated expression. He shakes his head. “You want something to eat? It’s late, but there’s this good Chinese takeout place that’s still open. Or there’s a café with sandwiches.”

Sherlock tilts his head back, examining the Dentist more closely. He’s a short man with large, black-rimmed glasses, smudges on the glass showing that he’s either a nervous fiddler, careless, or both. He hasn’t taken his hat off yet, but it’s pretty clear that he’s nearly bald. Heavyset, twitchy, possibly neurotic, not nearly as harsh as he likes to think himself to be, but still flirting with the shady side of the law. Add that to the paint stains, he’s possibly a forger of some sort. Rampant paranoia, not that Sherlock needs particular effort to deduce that, lactose-intolerant, possibly eidetic memory. Interesting. He files all this away in the back of his mind. “Yes,” he says.

“To the café or the Chinese? Or neither?” the Dentist asks, a note of impatience in his voice.

“A sandwich. Ah…ham,” Sherlock says. As the Dentist moves toward the door, Sherlock adds belatedly, “Take it out of my account, please.”

The Dentist waves a hand dismissively. “Consider it part of the ‘hiding your ass from the Suits and or people who wear suits but are much nastier than actual Suits’ express package,” he says. He fumbles in his pocket, and Sherlock’s too tired to tense. The Dentist fishes out a keyring and tosses it at him; Sherlock catches them, but just barely. “Keys. Door automatically locks, but you can also bolt it from the inside. I’ll knock the first two chords of Vivaldi’s ‘Autumn’ when I get back.”

The door swings shut with a reassuringly heavy  _thud_. Sherlock forces himself to stagger up and swing the bolt in place before dropping heavily back onto the bed. He kicks off his shoes and crawls under the covers, not bothering to take off anything else. Being too warm sounds like a good thing right now.

He still jerks awake when a  _tap tap tap TAP TAP_  comes on his door, but at that point, he’s running on fumes. He accepts the ham sandwich and waves the Dentist out before crawling back into the bed, leaving the sandwich untouched. Closing his eyes, he sleeps.

~*~

He wakes up with a horrible sense of disorientation, something that’s been happening more and more often lately. It takes a few minutes for him to regain his bearings: he’s safe here—temporarily safe—Mycroft’s promised him resource —Wiggins is dead—Moran is in New York City—and there’s a ham sandwich next to him on the table.

Right. First things first.

He savors the taste of the sandwich, wilted lettuce and all. It’s the first thing he’s eaten ever since escaping from Wiggins’ flat, and it might as well be the manna of the gods at this point. His head feels clearer after finishing the sandwich, and he straightens, feeling if not renewed, at least somewhat less pathetic. “Right,” he says out loud to the empty room. “I needed that.”

He instantly feels foolish as his words are swallowed by the empty silence. There’s no one here who will listen to him, who he can bounce ideas off of. There hasn’t been, not for a long time.

He takes a shower in meditative silence, letting the soothing sound of the water calm his thoughts, lets all the facts coalesce into a well-formed tapestry. What does he know? Well. He chased Moran here, and the bullets that Sherlock had put through his shoulder last time evidently had not hampered him in the least. Henry Blackwood, the head of the one of the Families of New York, was, if not completely on Moran’s side, at least playing his game for him. If his treatment of Wiggins was any indication, he does not take kindly to mid-ranking members of his organization hosting one Sherlock Holmes.

So Moran not only has his own myriad and mysterious resources left to him by Moriarty, he also has one of the most powerful families of New York City and the firepower behind it. Lovely. In the meanwhile, Sherlock has…well, he has Mycroft’s resources. Five thousand dollars. And he has the unreliable Dentist’s help, although how long that particular piece of charity will last, he has no idea.

All in all, it seems like Moran’s won this round.

He steps out from the shower. He only has his worn, filthy, bloodstained clothes, and Sherlock eyes them distastefully for a moment before sliding them on. He can’t afford to be picky, but he’ll need to acquire new clothing before long, as the dried blood is hardly subtle. Restless, he finds himself pacing the length of the small room. What does he  _know_ , what can he  _do_ …Blackwood undoubtedly has a price out on his head now. So first, he needs to disguise himself. Then…risky as it is, he needs to get inside Blackwood’s organization. Getting information secondhand isn’t enough; he needs to get in, find out where Moran is lodging and take him down.

It sounds immensely suicidal, but he’s been running on suicidal plans for a good while now. And he hasn’t died yet, despite coming very close.

There’s a rhythmic tapping on the door. Sherlock tenses for a moment before recognizing, dimly, the same rhythm from yesterday. He gets up cautiously, desperately wishing for a gun. He looks around for a moment before spotting the pan hanging neatly from the counter above the kitchenette’s stove, and he grips it firmly by the handle. Using the door as cover even as he swings it open, he watches the shadow from the hallway light, blood thrumming in his ears.

“Caution! You’re learning, young grasshopper,” the obnoxious yet relieving voice of the Dentist declares. The Dentist enters the room, and Sherlock acknowledges him with a stiff nod. “Good to see you’re up and awake.” The Dentist turns to face him. He looks even shiftier than yesterday if such a thing’s possible, and Sherlock feels a small trickle of dread. “By the way,” the Dentist says at last, “did you know there’s a five hundred thousand dollar bounty on your head?”

Sherlock’s swinging the pan before the sentence is even finished. The Dentist yelps as the pan hits his head and tumbles back, staggering into the cabinets above the kitchenette’s stove. “What do you know?” Sherlock hisses as he drops the pan and shoves the Dentist back against the stove.

“Hey!” the Dentist says breathlessly, holding his hands up. “Calm down! I’m not going to rat you out!”

Lying lying  _is he lying_. Sherlock used to be so calm, so cool, so good at outplaying liars at their own game. “Don’t tell me five hundred thousand doesn’t tempt you,” he snarls.

“It isn’t chump change,” the Dentist admits. “But, you know.” He clears his throat. “I made a deal with umbrella man, and I don’t back out on deals.”

“So I’m supposed to expect you’re not going to betray me out of honor?” Sherlock asks, injecting incredulity into his voice.

The Dentist makes a face at him. “I’ll have you know that though I am allegedly a criminal of mastermindly proportions, I don’t break contracts. That’s one way to send your reputation tanking downhill, and believe me, my twitchy friend, I know how much rests on reputation.”

Sherlock cocks his head. “I’ve never heard of you.”

“Exactly!” the Dentist says, gesturing expansively with his hands. He actually sounds  _smug_.

Sherlock searches his face, trying to discern the truth. He seems sincere, but if Sherlock knows anything these days, it’s that he’s a poor judge of truth. The Dentist looks back at him steadily, and Sherlock can feel the situation start to slip from his hands. He has no real choice but to trust him. And after all, why would the Dentist come back and tell him this…

“Because I thought it would be a good idea if you didn’t saunter around New York like you own it,” the Dentist returns when asked. “And I’m not totally heartless.”

Slowly, Sherlock eases his grip on the Dentist’s collar. He lets the little man settle back on the ground (evidently Sherlock’s been holding him on tiptoes all this time) and pulls away, hearing his heartbeat, sharp and frantic as it is. “Fine,” he says.

“Fine,” the Dentist echoes. “Don’t do me any favors.” He rubs at his head. “I can’t believe you hit me with a pan. What are you, Rapunzel?” He looks at Sherlock. “Keep growing that hair out and you’ll be a dead match, Mr. Fancy British Man.”

Sherlock frowns. “What are you here for, then, if not to betray me?”

The Dentist shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re running from, although from the way the street’s buzzing about Blackwood’s bounty, you’re into something nasty. And believe me, I have no desire to go head to head with New York’s finest.” He shudders. “Among the things they lack, dental hygiene and a sense of humor would not go amiss.”

Sherlock studies him with narrowed eyes. “So why are you here? To check on your apartment? I assure you that I haven’t ruined it.”

The Dentist shrugs. “Umbrella man gave me a good spot of cash,” he says. “Offered me an even more valuable currency if I’d broker some stuff for you. I’m not getting you grenades or whatever, mind you, but if you need papers, I can get them. Budget about five thousand dollars or so.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “What sort of currency did he offer you?” he asks, suspicious.

The Dentist sniffs. “Not that it matters to you, but I find cultivating goodwill very important. When you run your own little shady criminal enterprise, you’ll understand.” He reaches into his pocket, and Sherlock has to stop himself from swinging the pan again. “Courtesy of umbrella man,” the Dentist says, holding out a clipped bundle of hundred dollar bills. “Five thousand in cash, and five thousand more held with me. Tell me what you want and I’ll see if I can fetch it.”

Sherlock swipes a thumb through the sheaf of bills. It’s all there, he calculates. The money loosens a knot in his stomach that he hadn’t been aware was before; it’s as if a burden is lifted off his shoulders—he might die, but not this instant. “I will need identification,” he says at length. “An American driver’s license at least.” He thinks for a minute before rattling off a list of other necessary items. The Dentist nods, not writing anything down, and Sherlock confirms the eidetic memory hypothesis.

“Got it,” the Dentist says at length. “I can get you the driver’s license by tomorrow, but you’re going to have to wait a while for the other stuff. I’ll drop them off as I get them.” He heads for the door before turning dramatically in the doorway, one finger held up. “If you die, try not to bleed on the furniture. Blood can be surprisingly difficult to get out. Sure, you can scrub it, but there always those little traces left behind, and even the archaic technology used by crime scene investigators these days can manage to ferret it out.” He gives Sherlock a patently false smile before giving a little wave and sailing out the doorway.

Sherlock stares at the closed door for a moment before straightening up with a sigh. He slumps against the wall, thoughts whirling about wildly in his head. What next? He knows the names of quite a few people in Blackwood’s organization at Wiggins’ former level, but given Wiggins’ spectacular end, he doubts that any of those people will be inclined to help him. And he can’t blame them, seeing as he has the equivalent of a giant target pasted on his back. Without a direct introduction, it will be difficult—very difficult—to get into Blackwood’s good graces without attracting the attention of the man himself. And of course, he must avoid Moran all the while…

He has five thousand dollars at hand, another five lodged with the Dentist. He has the items the Dentist will procure for him, among them the papers he needs to create a new identity in the seedy underworld, a phone, and a handgun. They will have to be enough.

What sort of hold does Moran have over Blackwood, to have the man help him so? How close was he to Moriarty? How will he get into Blackwood’s organization? Maybe—wait. Revising his earlier plan, perhaps he could ally himself with one of the other Families of New York, offer them some of Mycroft’s not-inconsiderable resources in exchange for aid against Moran.

Well, that’s an idea.

~*~

He makes good use of his waiting period. He knows he has to change—he’s already done much of the mental journey, he thinks ruefully, but now his physical appearance must be altered as well. When he looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, he sees a man with dark, matted hair, the beginnings of an equally dark beard, hollows in his cheeks that hadn’t been there mere weeks ago. He looks very different from who he was before Moriarty, before losing John.

And now he has to change yet again.

The realization gives him a little pang of regret, but not too much—he’s grown used to the small sacrifices. Everything is small in comparison to the largest one he’s ever made.

He cuts his hair. With some hair dye and gel purchased at a dollar store, he bleaches it until it turns a stringy sort of blonde, and then he slicks it down flat. He’s not a makeup artist, but he does a passable job with some cheap makeup, subtly altering his face to lessen the effect of his cheekbones, which he knows are prominent. He hasn’t had much time to shave, what with being on the run and all, and the beard is a welcome addition. He stares at his reflection in the mirror for a long time, practicing his accent again and again until it sounds American enough.

He’s not going to be able to fool Moran, not by a long shot. But for those going solely by mug shots, he should be able to manage. “Should”, of course, being the operative word.

Disguise completed, he sets about familiarizing himself with the territory. Know thine enemy, or in this case, know the people who you’re about to cozy up to and infiltrate. Blackwood has quite a few enemies, part and parcel of being one of the top Families in New York, and really, it’s just a matter of picking the best one. He sets his sights on Charles Milverton, Blackwood’s opposite in the most stereotypical way possible: where Blackwood is genteel silk over ugly sword, Charles Milverton is, to put it politely, a thug. A thug who just happens to control more money than any honest person could possibly have.

He sets about ingratiating himself with the financiers of Milverton’s organization, seeding promises of money and power, slowly building himself a reputation. He’s from another state, sick of the petty squabbles, come to New York for a fresh start. And maybe he’s looking for somebody to fill a contract, one that will richly pay off for all parties involved. Sherlock strives to strike the right balance between power and respect, and he feels that he pulls the job off quite respectably.

As promised, the Dentist’s parcels arrive every day. The first is the largest—his licenses, his burner phone, clothing. He gets a gun two days later, followed by credit cards and accreditation. He receives a package laid neatly against his door every two days like clockwork, up until the day he comes back and gets a very, very bad feeling instead.

“Evening, gents,” he says in as level a voice he can manage, not bothering to look around. “I suppose we both know what I can for you all, so I won’t bother asking.”

The men don’t bother replying. Sherlock struggles, but even he can’t fight off three men alone, especially not when any one of the three men is about twice his size. He’s out like a light.

~*~

When he wakes up, he has the residuals of a pounding headache, but he otherwise seems to be in fairly good condition. He makes an effort to keep his breathing slow and calm as he tries to draw clues from his other senses. Soft, stilted breathing from somewhere nearby. Cool, still air. Hard surfaces around him. He’s not tied up. All this points to the following: he’s in a small room, probably basement, and there’s someone else in here with him. Probably not a captor, to judge from the breathing pattern, which means it’s a fellow unfortunate. All probability points toward the Dentist.

Sherlock cracks open an eye, and sure enough, it’s the Dentist. The other man is huddled on the floor about ten feet away, and he snaps to attention when Sherlock stirs. His eyes are wide and just a tad crazy.

“You’re awake? Spectacular!” he says. “Now I can have the small satisfaction of watching the life slowly drain from your eyes when you die.” He shudders. “Not, mind you, that I’ll be left long after that to savor the pleasure. You can tell umbrella man to drop dead. This the last time I do rentals. I mean, it might still be my last time, but if I get out of this alive, it’s  _definitely_  my last time.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “Well,” he says as the Dentist trails off into sullen silence, “I’m sure that if we do get out of this alive, My—the umbrella man will see fit to recompense you.”

“He’d better,” the Dentist grumbles. “Although that’s unlikely to happen. Nice accent, by the way.”

Sherlock twitches slightly. The jig is up, he supposes, and if he’s been apprehended, the accent is a poor disguise. “I relinquish your American sounds with relief,” he says. He looks around. “What happened?”

“You pissed off Henry Blackwood, that’s what happened,” the Dentist snaps. “And I got pulled into it. Thanks a lot.” He takes a shuddering breath. “I said a lot of stuff about client confidentiality, but it turns out that that’s more difficult to maintain when you have the threat of your fingernails being pulled out.” He gives Sherlock a sideways glance. “Under other circumstances, I’d apologize, but now I’m trying too hard not to die.”

Sherlock frowns. The Dentist is in a crouching position, but Sherlock can’t smell the distinct tang of blood and the Dentist’s movements don’t appear to be impeded. “Are you injured?” he asks.

“Permanently? No,” the Dentist says through clenched teeth. “Of course, the question of exactly what ‘permanent’ means depends on whether or not I survive this. Notice the ‘I’, not ‘we’, because I have to say whatever you did to Blackwood, he’s  _really_  not happy about it.” He casts a sideways glance at Sherlock. “I still mean what I said about not wanting to know, by the way. I do! I will admit to some errant curiosity, but I blame the current predicament.”

“If it makes you feel better, Blackwood probably’s out to kill me,” Sherlock murmurs. “The odds are good that he will let you go.”

The Dentist snorts. “He had me kidnapped and threatened in order to drag your location out of me. I really doubt that he’s just going to let me go.”

“So we’re in Blackwood’s custody?” Sherlock asks, straightening up.

“What part of  _Blackwood had me kidnapped_  did you not understand?” the Dentist says waspishly. “Yes, it’s him. And for your information, I did not see a penny of the five hundred thousand dollars. Not that I was intending to cash in anyway.”

“How long have you been here?” Sherlock asks, ignoring the Dentist’s hysterics in favor of some more strategic planning. “How long have I been here?”

“You see a window anywhere?” the Dentist says, apparently determined to be as unpleasant as possible. “I don’t know. Blackwood’s goons have been here maybe three times, a couple hours apart each time. They’ve fed us twice—cheeseburgers, the cretins!—so maybe a day. I would guess it’s been a couple hours for you, but they weren’t considerate to leave us a clock.”

A couple of hours. All right. Sherlock eases himself to a standing position with a grunt, looking around the room for cameras, weak points, any way to get them out of their current predicament. And yes, it’s a “them,” he reminds himself sternly. The Dentist has been trapped here because he aided Sherlock, and Sherlock likes to think that he’s not not fallen enough as to leave his compatriots behind. There’s a camera tucked away in a corner, and Sherlock does a quick mental calculation of its blindspots. There does not appear to be a microphone attached, but one can never be too sure when in the basement of a homicidal mob boss.

Once finished, he heads over to the door, not bothering to hide his intention from the camera. “Don’t bother,” the Dentist’s voice says glumly from behind him as he runs a finger along the edge of the doorframe. “I’ve already checked. Hinges are on the other side, and there’s not even a lock on this side.”

Sherlock steps back. The door is indeed completely smooth without even a doorknob. Whoever created this door made it quite specifically to keep people locked in. But—hmm. “Hinges on the other side?” he says.

Sherlock can hear a shifting sound behind him. “Yes,” the Dentist says, sounding cautious. He seems to have caught Sherlock’s gist; namely, if the door swings outwards, they can buy a few precious seconds of surprise against whoever’s standing on the other side. “I highly doubt it’d work,” the Dentist says pessimistically. “Too many men on the other side. Plus, once you’re out in the corridor, what do you intend to do? Unless you have a blueprint magically downloaded in your brain, you’ll be lost in Blackwood’s dungeon and nowhere to go. Plus, he’ll be even more pissed than he usually is.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, trying to rein in his annoyance. “Are you usually so pessimistic?”

“I follow the mantra of one Mel Brooks,” the Dentist says. “It’s served me well thus far.”

“Who’s Mel Brooks?” Sherlock demands, exasperated.

The Dentist rolls his eyes, and Sherlock has to fight back the urge to snap back. “A playwright, screenwriter, and winner of more awards than you can shake a stick at. Shame on you!” He shakes his head. “Anyway. As he said, ‘Hope for the best, expect the worst.’ Wise words to live by.”

“He took that quote from an old English proverb,” Sherlock snaps. “At any rate, your caution ultimately culminates in inaction, which in all likelihood will result in both our deaths. So you might want to contribute to the conversation.”

“I’m not made for this escape artistry thing,” the Dentist grumbles, sitting up. “I meant to retire a while back, you know? Didn’t work out, but the intention was genuine.”

“I wish I could retire,” Sherlock says, the words slipping out before he can manage to rein them back. He stops his examination of the door, shocked that he said them at all. He replays the words in his mind, and he’s surprised to find that he sounds…weary, and even more surprised to realize just how heartfelt those words are. He never thought that he’d be tired of puzzles, but deciphering this master puzzle left by Moriarty after his death is taking its toll.

More than anything, he just wants to go home.

The Dentist, at least, has the presence of mind to realize the gravity of the situation. “Retiring’s overrated,” he says at length. “I would probably have clawed out my own eyes from boredom if the Suit hadn’t—well, anyway, it doesn’t matter. Point is, being back in the game is more fun than sitting around on an island all day.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath to regain his composure. “You were on an island?” he says, not really caring about the answer. Keep talking, absent conversation, don’t let yourself focus too much. He moves his hand absently up and down the door, tapping the steel in more of a distraction than anything else. “I’m assuming you don’t mean Manhattan.”

“No,” the Dentist says, waving an airy hand. “Elsewhere. You know, pretty little Carribean-esque place. Turns out that the owner of the island would turn on us in a heartbeat, but eh. Crooks. You can’t win everything. We had a good run while it lasted.”

“We?”

The Dentist makes a face at him. “I believe we were trying to escape? Perhaps we’d like to turn our attention back to that instead of asking about my personal business.”

Sherlock gives him a sideways glance. “Your slip of the tongue is hardly my fault.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” the Dentist retorts. “You don’t see me butting into your business. Actually, I was more like _dragged kicking and screaming_  into your business in an embarrassingly literal way, but my intention was pure.”

“If we get out of here, you will be—”

“Yes, yes, compensated, I know. So what  _is_  your deal with Blackwood?” As Sherlock gives him an arched eyebrow, the Dentist shrugs and says unapologetically, “What? I’d like to know how badly I can expect Blackwood to dismember you. I mean, I kind of guessed it when the whole five-hundred-thousand dollar bounty came out, but what exactly did you do? Key his limos? Tell him he looks bad in those suits of his?”

Sherlock snorts. “Nothing that pedantic,” he says. “I angered an ally of his.”

“That’s some ally,” the Dentist remarks.

“Well, the aforementioned ally had a master that did threaten to kill an…associate…of mine,” Sherlock says stiffly. “It all got rather complicated from there.”

“Ah. Revenge wars! Splendid. ‘When seeking revenge, dig two graves—one for yourself.’ Douglas Horton,” the Dentist says.

“Who’s Douglas Horton?” Sherlock demands, exasperated.

The Dentist whirls around, giving him an incredulous look. Sherlock matches it with a stony one of his own. “A famed Protestant and clergyman. Plebeian!” He shakes his head. “Woefully lacking in education. I guess poor life choices was just the cherry on the sundae, huh?”

Sherlock advances onto him, thoroughly fed up. “You’re hardly in a position to judge my life choices, revenge war or not,” he snaps. He looks at the Dentist— _really_  looks—and brings the full blast of his analytic powers to bear. “You enjoy soft living, thinking yourself to be a gentleman criminal somehow above it all, but there’s the dream and then there’s reality. If you were the position of avenging someone who cared about, then you would do exactly what I am doing. You might not kill the offender personally, but you’ve placed at least one hit before on somebody and you’d do it again without a second thought. Frankly, you don’t get to turn your nose up at what I do.”

The Dentist stares at him. There’s a thin circle of white all around his eyes, and Sherlock knows that he’s hit his mark. “Fair enough,” the Dentist says at last, and his voice is much quieter. “I’ll give you that.” He pulls away. “Is my biography placed on some sort of criminal LinkedIn or something?”

Sherlock refrains from rolling his eyes, but just barely. “I’m very astute. My lack of knowledge about completely random people aside, evidently.”

“Touché,” the Dentist mutters. He’s quiet for a moment. “Fine. So what started all this avenging business? Judgemental mood off, I’m just wondering.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, then another. He opens his mouth to give an acidly acerbic remark, but the look on the Dentist’s face stops him. It’s not…cruel. And that’s the best thing Sherlock can hope for, just enough to take a leap of trust.

What does he have to lose anymore?

“I suppose you wouldn’t call it avenging, per se,” he says at last, his voice much quieter. “But I needed to die. At the very least, I needed to pretend to die. And I must stay dead, at least to those who I care about. Because if they know I’m alive, they’ll be in danger. I can’t tell them.”  _And I can’t be selfish about this._

The words feel hollow as they come out of his mouth. That’s what he’s been telling himself all this time, but Sherlock knows very well the deceptive power of the human mind. Is he lying to himself with those words? His task seems to be an impossible one, where the deck is stacked against him and the rules of the game constantly change. Fatalistically, the thought occurs to him—what’s the point? John thinks he’s dead. He’s trying to kill Moran to get back to John, but…if he died, no one except Mycroft would know the difference.

“The tangled webs we weave,” the Dentist says, as if sensing his mood.

“Don’t quote something at me again,” Sherlock says tiredly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the Dentist says. “Well, I’ll try to stick to more known people, at least.” He pauses. “So. You’re not dead. I can definitely see that.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says.

“So? Don’t stop in the middle of the best part.”

“Quite,” Sherlock says, feeling suddenly drained. Best part. Right.

He slides down to the floor, rubbing his forehead. “After his master died, this man—let’s call him M—has been very obstinate when it comes to ways to avenge him. As the focus of his anger, I need to stop him. I must stop him, for he will do everything in his power to try to stop me first.”

“Sounds like a Mexican standoff in the making,” the Dentist says. “What did you do to piss them off in the first place?”

Sherlock gives him a bleak smile. “I was a challenge. He was intrigued.”

The Dentist’s quiet. “So let me sum it up here,” he says at length. “You were minding your own business, and then suddenly this guy comes along, blows up your life, somehow dies, and now his second-in-command wants your head on a platter. And you’re trying to kill him before that happens in order to keep him from killing the people you care about. Am I getting warm?”

Sherlock considers. It’s a spectacularly crude summation of events, but the basic gist of it is correct. “Yes,” he says. “With a lot of missing details. But more or less correct.”

The Dentist shrugs. “Semantics.” He pauses. “Is it worth it?”

Sherlock rubs his forehead, exhausted. “The ones that I’m doing this for,” he says, and then stops. “They’re not dead. And I intend to keep them that way.”

The Dentist doesn’t say anything for a moment. “As far as goals go, that’s a pretty good one. I can understand that.” He shakes his head. “And I thought my life was hard. I mean, I’ve got a friend, I guess you could say that he gets into a lot of trouble, but to be honest half the time he actively goes searching for it.” He crosses his arms, giving Sherlock a searching look. “It sounds like you’re keeping a lot of details out. How’d the first guy die?””

Sherlock considers the Dentist. “Why?”

“Just curious,” the Dentist says, giving him an innocent shrug. “It’s not like we’ve got much else to do while waiting for our impending demise. You kill him?”

“No,” Sherlock says reluctantly. He casts a glance behind him; the camera is still there, ever present in one corner, and he turns his back and lowers his voice. “He killed himself.”

“Tough,” the Dentist says, not sounding particularly sympathetic. “And this M guy didn’t know that?”

Sherlock sighs. He can understand Moran’s psyche very well in some ways, but at other times, he finds himself stymied. “He does,” he says at length. “I doubt he cares.”

“I’m not surprised. In my experience, most people who have enough clout to hang out with the mafia usually are not very nice or logical people,” the Dentist says. “Of course, I guess I shouldn’t talk much, pot and kettle and all, but as you so astutely said earlier, I’m a gentleman criminal.”

“And how much experience have you had with the criminal underworld?” Sherlock says with tired humor.

The Dentist shrugs. “Enough. I’ve done some stuff in my time. Still am doing, if you want to get all technical about it. I’m surprised you don’t have my entire resume in your brain. Did umbrella man brief you on me before you came here? He did, didn’t he? He must like you a lot to contract my services. I’ve only ever met him twice, but both those encounters were chilling enough to keep me from thinking twice about doing any funny business.”

“You’ve met him in person? He usually stays on the other side of the pond,” Sherlock says, mildly intrigued.

“I’ve done my fair share of travelling,” the Dentist says, waiving a hand. “I met him when I had some...let’s call them escapades…in London a couple years ago. We got away with them, but the umbrella man managed to get me to owe him a favor. That sort of turned into a pretty profitable business relationship. I handled a couple things for him in various states, passed him some information. It’s been good up until now.”

We again, Sherlock notes. “He does have a gift for extracting favors,” he murmurs, referring to Mycroft. “What he lacks in any sort of brain or grace, he possesses amply in cunning.”

“Sounds like you know him personally,” the Dentist says, sounding suspicious.

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock says. The familiar insult rises automatically, but the words feel strange in his mouth. He owes Mycroft a good deal of favors himself, and he’s not entirely sure that their blood connection can be justification for the sheer number of strings that Mycroft has pulled on his behalf in recent months. “But he’s not completely…detrimental,” he says at last.

The Dentist looks at him in silence for a moment. “Saying thank you really isn’t your strong spot, huh?”

Sherlock smiles despite himself, his lips quirking up ruefully. “I’ll thank whoever sees fit to rescue us from our current predicament,” he says.

“I’m sure they’ll be touched,” the Dentist says dryly. He turns away, pacing the room. It’s not a very big room, and when he reaches the other end of it, he whirls around to face Sherlock in a somewhat melodramatic fashion. “Well,” he says, clapping his hands together, “today’s your lucky day, my emotionally constipated friend.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes,” the Dentist says. “Because at this moment, I feel that we can extend our business relationship to a slightly more personal one.”

…Well. Don’t say anything, Sherlock thinks. He settles for politely puzzled silence.

“Don’t give me that look, Mr. Fancy British Man. You see, I am the greatest ally you could ever have. I have great reserves of natural cunning and the wisdom of the ages. Also, have I mentioned I can kill people with playing cards? Because I can.” The Dentist crosses his arms, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

_Oh._  That’s what he means. Nonetheless, Sherlock remains silent, waiting to draw the Dentist out.

The Dentist sighs. “Well, I was never one for rapturous applause. You can thank me later once we’re out of here.”

Sherlock takes a minute to gather his thoughts. “Ah,” he says finally. “I’m much gratified. How do you suppose we pull that off? I’m surprised I didn’t wake up tied to a chair, actually, but I doubt other concessions have been granted kidnapping-wise.”

“You haven’t been tied up because the boss probably wants to oversee your interrogation personally,” the Dentist says with a sage nod of his head. “The delay probably means that he’s not on-site, and they’re waiting for him to come. From what I know, though, Blackwood doesn’t like getting his hands dirty.” He claps his hands. “At any rate, it won’t matter, because you, Fancy British Man, and I, we’re going to pull off an escape.”

Sherlock frowns. “Why would you help?” he says at last, his mind whirling. “You owe me nothing. Our relationship is purely business, nothing more.”

The Dentist rolls his eyes. “The world would be a much better place if people just listened. I’m upgrading it, remember? Also, I’m irritated at Blackwood, because come on, kidnapping just because I rent rooms out to people is just not done. Poor business decision on his part. Also also, I am not a heartless bastard.”

“Do you have some sort of scheme?” Sherlock asks blankly. “Other than ‘storm the citadel,’ because I don’t think either of us are in shape to do so.”

“Please,” the Dentist says, waving a hand dismissively. “As if I would rely on such a hare-brained plan. I rely on subtlety and cunning to achieve my means. And also, knowing where you are beaten.”

“What?” Sherlock says, looking at him askance.

“‘Life is like a late night game show. If you can’t win alone, call a friend.’ Mozart Haversham.”

“Who’s—actually, never mind. I’m going to assume he’s some sort of obscure figure of history that I should magically know about, all curses unto public school education.”

The Dentist grimaces. “Actually, it’s probably for the best if he remains somewhat unknown, because Mozart Haversham would be me. Since I’ve decided to breach the walls of paranoia, you may call me Haversham. And you are? Unless you want me to keep calling you Fancy British Man, which is a mouthful but I’ve been kind of stressed lately, not at my best. I can come up with something better, or I could use your name and or alias of preference.”

Fancy British Man? “I…Sherlock,” Sherlock says.

“Isherlock?”

“Sherlock,” Sherlock corrects firmly. It feels strange to hear his name spoken out loud so boldly. He’s been Joseph Altamont, Captain Basil, Morris Sigerson, and so many more, but it’s his own name, his real name, that fits over him most comfortably. It always has.

He looks up. It feels like the right moment for it, so he holds out a hand for Haversham to shake. It seems to be the appropriate gesture.

“Sherlock,” Haversham repeats, shaking his hand. “Wonderful. You ready?”

Sherlock spreads his hands, gesturing for Haversham to continue. “What did you have in mind?”

~*~

_(He wasn’t kidding about the playing cards.)_

~*~

“What were you doing, getting hooked up with Blackwood?” says the neat, dapper-looking young man who greets them after the FBI finish storming the building. “Mozzie, I thought you stayed away from all the mob stuff. If you hadn’t gotten the message out to me, you’d be toast by now.”

“I did stay away from the mob!” Haversham—Mozzie?—protests. “You can blame this guy,” he says, gesturing behind him to where Sherlock is standing. “Blackwood’s out for him, and I, your friendly neighborhood short knight in somewhat dinged armor, nobly stepped up to the cause. His name’s Sherlock.”

There’s a moment of frozen silence as the man and Sherlock regard each other. Sherlock looks him up and down, frowning as he puts the pieces together. The man is not an agent.  _Definitely_  not an agent. He’s run with Haversham for a good while, no doubt the “friend” that Haversham recalled with such fondness. Expensive, fine clothing, but it’s not tailored specifically for him. Living off someone else’s charity, a patron, perhaps, or the modern day equivalent. And an interesting bulge around his ankle; a tracking anklet, perhaps? Recent tan, not acquired in New York, add that with a possibly island getaway and his ease around the FBI and…

The pieces of the puzzle fit together to make an interesting picture, at least.

“Neal Caffrey,” the man says brightly, holding out a hand. “Sherlock, huh? That’s an interesting name.”

Sherlock finds his voice. “My parents enjoyed the esoteric,” he says dryly, returning the handshake.

“Do they know you’re on the run from a mob boss?” Caffrey asks. There’s no sting in his voice, just playful curiosity. “Mozzie, is he another one of your clients? He’s pretty good as a lawyer. Keep him on retainer,” he adds as a conversational aside.

“I’m a jack-of-all-trades, and there is not nearly enough appreciation for my many skills,” Haversham says, but there’s no real vitriol to it. He turns to Sherlock. “Watch. I’m about to give you one more miracle.” He raises a hand, beckoning to the older looking man who’s approaching them. “Suit!”

“Mozzie,” the man says warily. This man is definitely FBI; he carries the authority of one who believes stoutly in the law. An older man, and from the way he and Caffrey look at each other, his keeper, maybe even lover. Veteran on the job, married, stable home life, no children, one dog, and dedicated to his job. Sherlock feels the knot of tension inside of him slowly relax. It’s not over, not by a long shot, but maybe there are options for him here beyond Mycroft’s distant protection.

As if he can read Sherlock’s thoughts, Haversham gives him a reassuring nod. Turning away from Sherlock, Haversham gives the man a perfect shit-eating grin. “Hey, Suit,” he says brightly. “How’d you like to take down a mob boss?”

The game is on.

**-END-**  



End file.
